True addicts can blog from anywhere

As proof of the above, I'd like to point out my location: I'm in the middle of a music studio, nestled comfortably between a piano and an enormous mixer. Intrepid is going to be starting his first private piano lesson EVER. He's in his third year of practicing and performing with a stage band but has yet to receive any private lessons. We can only comfortably afford one type of lesson at a time and he loves performing with the group. However, the in-laws have generously offered to pay for private lessons, so away we go! He'll be starting in a few minutes, which is just enough time for me to write useless gunk online.

He started trying to teach me piano at my insistence. It appears I have absolutely no discipline or attention skills whatsoever. I lost interest after five minutes, partially due to frustration and partially because my coffee was getting cold; I kept looking at it longingly until my son realized it was better to write me off as a "lifelong learner". You know, one of those people who can't focus on one thing long enough to actually become good at it? That's me.

Except raising kids. I've honed that craft for nearly ten years now and I'm not bad at it. I even managed to bring Gutsy to Mrs. Wailing's house for part of the day, then to a furniture store, two grocery stores and a dollar store, all without fits of any kind. Naturally, this is due to my excellent parenting skills (when he misbehaves, it's due to his father's genetics).

While at Mrs. Wailing's this morning, Gutsy found a child's tape recorder/karaoke machine and instantly fell in love with it. I must say, I wasn't expecting to find him singing along to Fleetwood Mac. Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies, Gutsy. Who knew Wailing Junior had a retro side to him?

I looked in the mirror today, dressed in a long-sleeved, orange shirt and black yoga pants, yet couldn't figure out who I reminded myself of. Then it dawned on me: Remember how Linus would stay up all night in the pumpkin patch on Hallowe'en, waiting for The Great Pumpkin? We never got to see this much celebrated figure, but there's a simple explanation for that: I wasn't pregnant (I may not have even been born) when The Great Pumpkin came to be. But I bet if I went for a casting call for a Peanuts movie, they'd hire me on the spot. However, they'd have to film it within the next couple of weeks, though. Hurry up, GM Studios! Your diva awaits!

The contractions today have been fairly annoying. Nothing consistent, however. I've resigned myself to having this baby sometime in December, when he's good and cooked. I'm guessing he needs at least 50 or 60 weeks in there.

Blah!

Pardon my henglish

I live just across the river from Ottawa in the province of Quebec. For those not in the know, it's pretty french in Quebec. Sometimes militantly so, but thankfully not here. Far too many people in this area depend on the maudit anglais for jobs on the Ontario side, so they're usually fairly accomodating.

Regardless, I'm fully bilingual. It's part of how perfect I am. I'd be trilingual, but that might involve me having to learn a language because I want to, not because I'm forced to. See, I learned to speak french (well, Quebec french, which is a whole other language in itself, to be honest) because I had to go to a french school. Place one little english girl in a school where she can't speak to the other children and she will quickly learn to do so in order to stop being harrassed out of her lunch money.

The funny thing about the businesses in the area is that, while a lot of the owners and employees speak passable english, the written translations are often horrible. This week I've come across a couple of keepers I'd like to share.

From a realtor's advertisement:

If you are planning to buy or to sell a property in the Gatineau area, I will be please to be your personnal Real Estate Agent.

Ok, minor typos there. These are fairly typical french-to-english issues. He forgot the 'd' at the end of pleased and added an 'n' in 'personal'. I'd be please to translate for him in the future. I think I could make a decent living at it around here.

Also from the same ad:

It does not matter where you live or the area you are planning to move, call me and I will give you advices.

Forgetting that the entire sentence is grammatically incorrect, I'm please(d) to see that he wants to give not one advice, but several. That's a generous offer, considering that in other situations, like a psychic hotline, you normally only get one question free and can't ask a bunch of advices all at once.

I was in tears laughing at the breakfast menu on Friday while out with The Sister. She pointed out all sorts of translation flaws I hadn't noticed before. For example:

French toasts covered in icy sugar.

Brrr! Those toasts must be cold!

And my favourite description:

A balloon of fresh fruits napped with english cream.

Er... What, exactly, is a balloon of fruits? I looked everywhere on the menu but was unable to find anything even remotely resembling something one would see at a birthday party. In fact, the picture next to said description had a cup of fruit on it. Or maybe it was a bowl. But it certainly wasn't a balloon.

Also, how the hell does one 'nap' something with english cream? It's like they made up a new term. I understand that 'sick' can have different meanings. When I say 'that's sick' I mean 'Ew, that's really gross' or 'Hey, that thing really looks sick in the literal sense'. When a twelve-year-old says 'that's sick' they usually mean it's a good thing. 'Fat' and 'phat' are other examples. I'm both fat and phat, by the way. I'm also pretty fly for a white girl, which doesn't mean I've sprouted wings.

I have yet to understand how taking a snooze has anything to do with the use of english cream on fruit, but I can't find any other use for the verb. Maybe I'm behind the times and I'm not using it properly anymore.

Now that I've napped the blog with sarcasm, I'm going to bed.

I'm please to say I don't feel so thirty anymore. Taking my own advices is pretty cool.

"Did you pop that baby yet?"

Why no, I didn't. But thanks for asking as well as for assuming that I can pop them out like Pez. If I keep that image in mind I might be able to squeeze him out by envisioning my hooha as a giant Yosemite Sam head. Perfect.

I thought I was going to pop the kid, though. Yesterday, after a full day of Braxton-Hicks contractions, a trip to Gutsy's preschool, breakfast with The Sister, a shopping trip to the dollar store and Walmart and a drive-by the dentist's office to drop off a cheque, I came home with a tired three-year-old and bags full of stuff. When I opened the front door, our grey cat made an escape attempt from Catcatraz. She launched herself at the front door and, not knowing what to do, I kicked the door closed behind me.

That's when I heard an awful wail and noticed that the closed door contained her trapped paw. Oh god, it was AWFUL. Thankfully paw was still attached to cat and nothing seems to be broken.

Obviously, I quickly opened the door and she bolted. I went after her, calling her name, but she had made a dive into the icy, shark-infested waters surrounding the prison and was gone.

About 20 minutes after that, the contractions started getting a lot worse. By five, they were painful and coming about every three minutes. I called Geekster (who has a 40+ minute commute) and politely suggested that he leave as soon as his meeting is over. I called my dad, who said my mom was out. I called my mom, who rushed over with The Penguin so we could head to the hospital.

Of course, nothing big happened. We got there and I was still contracting. I had the stupid monitor put on me and they were coming around every 3-5 minutes. My urine test revealed I was slightly dehydrated, so I was given an enormous glass of ice water. No change in my cervix since my prenatal on Tuesday and my baby, like many young men before him, is showing a fear of commitment and is not engaged. I was given the option to stay at the hospital and wait a few more hours, but I decided to just come home.

The Penguin insisted Geekster and I make the most of our babysitters and go out for coffee. We hit a nice little cafe where I consoled my embarrassed self with some herbal tea and a brownie thing called a 'squirrel' (which I believe to have been free of any mammals or mammalian parts).

Then the itching started and progressed through the night and into today. I don't mess around with the potential for ICP. I was itchy everywhere! So, with my proverbial tail between my legs, I went back to the hospital this morning for liver tests, which thankfully came out negative. Apparently I'm itchy for no other reason but that I'm itchy. This is good news, but frustrating. I can live with being itchy and I'm really happy my baby isn't feeling the wrath of a broken liver (funny how the alcoholic has liver problems. Hah!), but I felt like such an idiot for going into the hospital twice in less than 24hrs. I told them I just like the attention. I told The Madre that I was faking the entire thing so Geekster and I could go out on a date. If only it were true!

They are quite nice there, though. They even served me a disgusting hospital lunch while I was waiting for my liver panel results to come back. Something resembling meatballs, "garlic" "mashed potatoes" and vegetables made it onto my tray. I checked the meat to see if it had ears or a tail. I think the green things were spices. I think.

Have I mentioned how much I wanted to have a homebirth this time around? If anything, I could at least eat well while labouring and recovering. Eating well = identifiable foods. Hey, I'm not picky. I just want to know what I'm chewing. Another reason I don't consume Spam.

On the bright side, Jackson the Contraction is healthy, I'm (physically) healthy and I get a few more days or weeks to get my pregnant, slacker behind out of my self-made ass groove on the couch and get the rest of our lives and home organized before he makes his appearance.

In other words, I have a lot more time to drink coffee and talk on the phone, which is about all I do these days. The gremlins are about this close to placing an ad in the paper for a new mother. One who gets them a snack instead of saying 'You can't reach that? Grab a chair. The one I'm pointing to, there. Yeah. Ok, climb up... I know I normally say not to climb up on things. Just ignore that rule for now. No, you won't get in trouble. Just grab something sugary and go watch Sponge-Bob, ok? Mommy's too pathetic to get up right now.'

*sigh*

But hey, it's almost International Talk Like a Pirate Day and I'd rather not be in labour for it. September 19th is the grand occasion. I wonder how Angry Neighbour would feel if I walked up to him shouting 'Ahoy, thar! How be yer deck? Free o' me pesky felines, I hope? YAR! But ye ar' a bitchy one, matey, I must say. Do ye have a bottle o' rum stuck up thar?'

I could give him my new name:

My pirate name is:

Mad Anne Kidd

Every pirate is a little bit crazy. You, though, are more than just a little bit. Even though you're not always the traditional swaggering gallant, your steadiness and planning make you a fine, reliable pirate. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.
part of the fidius.org network

Thursday's child is full of pain

Ok, I know I skipped a day of blogging. The thing is, I'm mostly just miserable and there really isn't much to talk about when I'm in that frame of mind. Other than being miserable, that is.

Today isn't much of an exception. Last night my husband and I did things-that-shall-not-be-named-because-my-mother-reads-my-blog, and this somehow encouraged InUtero Boy to make his way even lower into my pelvis. This is already after the doctor told me he's 'right there' to begin with, meaning very low. Leave it to my spawnling to posess the intelligence and evil necessary to burrow his horns even deeper. It makes a mother proud *wiping away a tear*.

I woke up this morning at 5:50am to use the facilities. This was quite a treat, as it meant over six hours of uninterrupted sleep; a rarity the last few weeks. When I got up I just knew that somehing was different. Ever watch an emperor penguin walk with a egg balanced between its legs? Bow-legged, slow and precarious? Well, that's a sexier walk than what I can do right now.

Being way down on the sex-o-meter with nothing to lose, I can now say that it took me forever and a day to pee. That's what happens when a baby's head is right-there-much-more-so-than-before.

I was on the phone with Thac0 this morning and told her about how low he is and isn't he only supposed to do that right before or during labour in subsequent pregnancies? She informed me that nothing is guaranteed in pregnancies other than 'they have to come out'. I followed that up with 'No, he has to come out and come out before his due date and without tearing me from ying to yang.'

'No,' she replies calmly. 'That's not a guarantee.'

Maven gets all up in her face: 'Thac0, listen closely: If you value our friendship, then you'll agree with me right now.'

I could almost hear her eyes rolling (it would be weird if you could actually hear someone roll their eyes, wouldn't it? *shudder*). 'Yes, ok. All those things are guaranteed.'

The Maven rules all. Even six foot Amurken chicks. That's what I'm telling myself, anyway. Really, she's just easy going and has a very high tolerance for my crap.

So, in short, getting up hurts, walking hurts and I may have to find myself a prostate problem support group to find people who get how... interesting ...urinating is right now.

But the good news is this: Today is speech therapy day, followed by a nice afternoon with my grandma. She's a cool chick. What other five foot nothing little British lady can say she was an anti aircraft bomber in WWII? I come from strong genetics (none of them laced with emperor penguin DNA, just to be clear). We're doing lunch followed by tea in her apartment. Yes, I do drink things other than coffee, despite the rumours.

Tonight we have meet-the-teacher, which is a bit of a pain considering that we already met the teacher last year. But, it's an obligatory function so one of us has to go. By 'one of us', I most likely mean Geekster, unless the children drive me batty this afternoon and I'm willing to stride (painstakingly shimmy) my way into Intrepid's school in all my hugeness. Maybe the teach will let me sit in her chair instead of using the boy's like I normally have to do. We can hope she remembers the end of pregnancy in ways I never do. Because honestly, if I had recalled how miserable I was the last two times, I would have purchased a chastity belt on eBay.

Gutsy's slowly adjusting to school. He only made me stay with him for about half an hour yesterday before I was able to duck out of there and head back home for a while. He came out in a great mood with a painting, a connect-the-dots picture (complete with lots of colour but no connected dots) and a Mr. Potato Head collage with some scary-looking teeth. He was incredibly proud of himself and I, of course, was very proud of him, too. Gutsy may be a bit of a handful, but he's also so sweet. He told me he made all the crafts for me because he knows I like them. And, the hormonally-charged mother that I am at the moment, I almost started bawling in the parking lot. Way to make some new friends there, crazy girl.

But making friends I am, slowly. It's a nice bunch of people at the preschool this year. Lots of *gasp* stay-at-home-parents. We're a rare breed, but we seem to all flock to certain places. I should probably alert some nature photographers to our whereabouts so they can snap some pictures. If there's enough support, we may even get the preschool declared a preservation area to protect this delicate and rapidly disappearing species.

Anyway, I should go shower. I shudder at the thought of walking upstairs and having to stand for so long. I'm just grateful I did a leg shave a couple of days ago. I won't need another until at least Monday. What I do need, however, is someone to come over and clean my house. And give me a hug. And watch a chick flick with me. Any takers?

No, you can't just watch a chick flick. You have to hug me and clean, too. It's a package deal.

Hey! Please don't leave. I'm sure we can work something out...

Was the tortoise moody as well as slow?

Guess who's back? Back again. Maven's back. Tell some men.

Actually, please don't tell any men. I only have one and he's the reason behind my hugeness and uncomfortableness. I don't need more men and more pregnancies, thankyouverymuch.

Hark! I bring news from the medical world of pregnancy (I really can't stand how pregnancy is considered a medical condition, by the way, but I'll save that rant for another time). What shall we speak of first?

Obviously, I was correct. I'm measuring 42 centimeters at 36 weeks. A full 6cm ahead due to the mutant spawnling within me. He's also still firmly head down (no way he's going to move now as he has about as much room in there as I do in between me and the steering wheel at the moment - meaning abso-freaking-lutely none). His back is squarely in the middle of my tummy and he's ready to rock.

I'm nearly 2cm dialated, which means the contractions from this week have been fairly productive. Horray! The doctor thinks this is less horray as I'm only 36 weeks, but the doctor also hasn't gained two pounds this week of pure baby and is not praying - praying! - to every single god of all major religions, idols, icons and coloured paperclips that this child be born no more than two weeks from now. Call me selfish, but I would like to avoid a 23lb baby if at all possible. Just a personal preference, I guess.

Besides, being 2cm means very little in a third pregnancy. Yet, I cling to a bit of hope, as I was 1cm last week. Slow but sure, like the tortoise. And news in print form. And old men walking to the mailbox.

As for the itching, we will wait to see what happens. If I get UberItchy(tm), we'll run some more liver panel tests. However, I hope this little man makes his appearance before my innards decide to wreak havoc on both of us.

Earlier today I took Gutsy to the park. He asked me to play 'spaceship' with him, so I did. I walked up the playstructure and barely squeezed through the opening, which is designed for small children and little adults. Plus-sized pregnant women and land whales everywhere are screaming out in protest. Boy, that half a block to the park was a killer! Phew. Once I made it onto the playstructure I sat down on a step while Gutsy 'worked the controls' on a panel.

'Wow, Mom! With me working the controls and you... um... sitting on the buttons, we're really making this ship fly fast!'

How sad it is that I'm so pregnant and immobile my child has to resort to pretending I'm sitting on buttons? There are times when I feel like nothing more than a mediocre mother, despite my willingness to tolerate their abuse on a full-time basis. This was one of those times. The Maven of Mediocrity.

I haven't mentioned as of late that I'm glad to have closed down Daycareville. Well, it's about time that I do! This week is a great example, as there's something that needs to be done every day of the week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings Gutsy has to be at school. Today I had a prenatal and a preschool meeting this evening. Wednesday, while the boys are in school, I have someone coming to give us an estimate on having our driveway paved. Thursday I take the boys to speech followed by a late celebratory birthday lunch with my grandma, followed by meet the teacher night.

In other words, I can't really go into labour this week. I will tell The Thing That Ate My Waist that he must spend at least the next five days in there. I'm sure he'll cooperate - he's one of my children after all and we all know how easy going they are.

To blog or not to blog?

Blogging... or bed?

Should there even be a debate among the sane?

Am I sane? No, but I can sometimes make choices that resemble those a sensible person would make.

I'm going to choose bed. Well, after a short post (told you I wasn't all there).

Yeah. I need sleep. I'm a 36 week pregnant woman who has a couple of appointments tomorrow and needs to pee in a cup for one of them (the prenatal, not the preschool board of directors meeting).

Gutsy had his first full morning of preschool and I somehow ended up on Poop Patrol. I promised him I'd stay in the school while he did his thing. So I grabbed my book and a half-caf and sat in the kitchen. At first, there was one crying child. This quickly set another one off, which set off two or three others. It was a very, very loud morning. Preschool teachers are saints in disguise. There's absolutely no way I would have been able to put up with crying children of that magnitude for that length of time. One bawled his poor little eyes out - loudly, I might add - for the entire three hours. I could hear him through the playroom door while I tried to focus on my book. I could hear him when they went upstairs. He had remarkable stamina and a great set of lungs.

Oh, right: Poop Patrol. While the teachers were dealing with the chaos that is the first week of preschool, I let them know that I could help out in whatever way they might need me to. Heck, I'm just sitting there reading, and poorly at that since I'm having a hard time concentrating over the wailing. Wouldn't you know that I ended up supervising three children who needed to do a number two in the bathroom? Yes, that was my civic duty for the day. Managing the young bums of the future generation. And let me tell you, this pregnant woman had a hard time dealing with the smells wafting from the bathroom, even in her third trimester. We have some healthy preschoolers in there, that's for sure!

Poop patrol lead into a relaxing afternoon at home with Gutsy, followed by Intrepid. I was able to rest quite a bit and get the contractions I had been having all morning to calm down a bit. Of course, as soon as they did I started mopping the floor. Me so smart. This started up not only the contractions, but this awful charlie horse type feeling I've been getting when InUteroBoy jabs his shoulder (I think) into my stomach. I get this very sharp muscle cramp just to the upper right of my belly button. OUCH. Have I mentioned I'm hoping for an early arrival?

Anyway, off to bed. I'll post more after my prenatal tomorrow. My prediction: 42cm fundal height at 36 weeks. Let's see if I'm right (and hope I'm not).

Meet the new condo owners

We actually went out and bought the felines a cat condo. Can you believe it? It's not too shabby, really, but I can't get over the cost. I've decided making cat condos is the way to supplement Geekster's income (which we'll need to do since we just bought a cat condo. Hmm...) It looks fairly simple, really: take some wood and thick cardboard and glue it together in some funky shape, put cheap carpet in a neutral shade around it and tack it together. Smear catnip on it and dangle a bunch of feathers and a bell from somewhere. Sell it for $79.99 to some cat owners who are idiotic enough to think they can buy their kitties' love. Voila: cat condo!

It's truly ridiculous that we spent that much. Guilt goes a long way. Imagine what the gremlins will get for Christmas if InUtero Boy ends up being a really high-needs baby. 'Sorry mommy and daddy are exhausted and have no time for you. Here, Santa got you a plasma tv and a new X-Box.'

We had no escapees from Catcatraz today, thankfully. I don't know how much more Angry Neighbour will put up with. Also, I'm not quite clear on the 'your cat is scratching our screen door' complaint. I have questions about this: Is she scratching it to the point of annoyance? Is she causing damage? Are you feeding your own cat lobster entrees by said screen door? I dare not ask him any questions, however. He and his partner used to be so friendly and all of a sudden started to snub us for no apparent reason. They refused to say hello, would ignore us when we waved, yet gave no explanation. However, when he came over, he told Geekster that this 'cat + screen' problem had been going on for some time now.

This is where the urge to say 'people are so stupid' rises up from the depths of my hormonal being. If this has been going on for a while, did he really think that not talking to us was going to fix the problem? What part of the brain decides this is the mature way to handle things? Passive aggressiveness does not make good neighbours (says the woman who is writing this in her blog instead of talking to Angry Neighbour about it.... And calling him 'Angry Neighbour').

Anyway, enough about the neighbour fiasco. This is not the dumbest dispute we've had with neighbours in the past. Truthfully, it only ranks #3.

#2 Worst Neighbour Story of All Time: The Lawn Nazi

We live in a semi-detached home. Angry neighbour and his partner are on the other side of a (thankfully for them) very thick concrete wall. Previously, we had a lawn-obsessed, crotch rocket-riding jock and his trophy wife next door. They were anything but friendly from the start, mostly ignoring us and frowning when we'd bring toddler Intrepid outside to play. We were interrupting their quiet sun tannning (my favourite view was when she was very pregnant, sun tanning and having a smoke at the same time. Yummy.)

I digress... They had constructed a chainlink fence and had planted cedar hedges on the inside of it. About 15 minutes after Geekster had finished mowing the lawn, there was a pounding at the door. He went outside, only to be confronted by Lawn Nazi. Apparently, when cutting along the property line, our lawnmower had spewn grass clippings onto Lawn Nazi's fledgeling hedges. He was PISSED. The horror!

It took everything Geekster had not to burst out laughing at how upset the guy was. Lawn Nazi even went so far as to inform Geekster that at least they had bothered to spend the extra money and bought a lawnmower with a bag so these things wouldn't happen. It was only then that we realized that he was actually Ignorant Lawn Nazi. Every true Yard Jockey knows that grass clippings are good for your lawn.

Whatever happened to Lawn Nazi and Trophy Wife? Divorced. I don't blame her. I couldn't live with him longterm, either. Yikes.

#1 Worst Neighbour Story of All Time: The Dung Runners

Our dog apparently got out of our yard while my sister was babysitting one day and had himself a little poop in the neighbour's backyard. This was back about nine years ago when we were renting a home in a different part of town. If I remember correctly, the neighbour sent her young boys over to tell us (but we were out, so they told my sister) what had happened and demanded that she pick it up. My sister explained that she was unable to do so as baby Intrepid was napping and she couldn't leave him alone in the house. She said that she would let us know as soon as we got back and that one of us would surely clean it up.

The next thing she knew, the boys came back and threw a paper bag full of our dog's bidnis on our front step, causing it to break apart everywhere. 'Our mother says to enjoy your dinner!' they taunted, and ran off.

Very classy, those neighbours. I have to admit that I didn't shed a single tear when she came over not to long after, crying because someone had broken into her house in broad daylight. She said 'Didn't you see anything? You were home ALL DAY!'

I really, REALLY wanted to tell her I was too busy getting dog shit stains off my front porch to notice, but I kept my mouth shut. Karma did its thing - I didn't need to interfere.

***

So, in short, Angry Neighbour is but a drop in the bucket compared to the craziness we've been privy to in the past. And my mother wonders why we often dream of moving out of the city...

I'm being a good girl

In the true spirit of community, I've removed yesterday's snarky post about my neighbour getting all up in Geekster's face about our cat scratching at his door. Apparently it's been going on for a while now, but instead of mentioning it before it made him as frustrated as I'm likely to be in a bathingsuit store postpartum, he decided to wait until he just couldn't take it anymore and knocked on our door at 9pm last night. Not a happy camper was Mr. Neighbour. His lack of communication made me less than pleased as well (it doesn't take much these days, being the hormonally charged pregnant woman I am), so I vented my little heart out in blogland.

Of course, this morning I felt like a bad person, because it truly is our responsibility to keep our pets from destroying other people's property. So, in a rare show of regret I removed the post. It did have a good line about leg warmers, though *sigh*

It's day one of Catcatraz and the prisoners are restless. They don't quite understand why they're not allowed outside anymore. Their little tales are twitching. It's making me quite sad, really. I bought them treats today and will probably go get them a cat condo or something out of sheer guilt. And catnip. And toys.

My poor kitties. They've already started a campaign to help get them out of the big house:




Believe it or not, it's the little, grey one that's causing the problems. Can you imagine? She's so sweet, isn't she?

It's really only a matter of time before they get out again and we get Angry Neighbour on our doorstep interrupting yet another great primetime show. We tried to keep them indoors for two years once and it was miserable for everyone. They hated every minute and it was stressful all around. So, I hope they adjust to life indoors this time or that we can find another home for them. I don't want to think of the alternative option; a premature trip to Kitty Heaven just doesn't seem right.

Friday morning update

I'm feeling much more positive today. This, of course, has nothing to do with the fact that I'm getting a few hours to myself. Nothing at all. It also surely has nothing to do with the father of the spawnlings bringing me a Tim Hortons coffee after seeing Intrepid onto the school bus.

Oh, and it's payday, which means I can do more bargain hunting for baby. And I'm going to visit a friend for a relaxing afternoon.

Am I the same person who was so miserable yesterday? Step aside, Sybil. The many faces of Maven are very apparent at the end of the third trimester.

It's going to be a good day. Good, but hot. I'm contemplating flipping on the central air before I leave this morning, but I don't want to be a wuss. It's going to cool right down this evening, so a few hours of hot shouldn't justify using up more electricity. Our bill for the last two months was over $200. Welcome to pregnancy in the summer, baby.

I'm still somewhat itchy, so I'm trying to be good to my liver by eating very basic foods. This morning I had an apple, some raisins and half a whole wheat bagel with light cream cheese. That should tide me over for a good while. Half an hour, maybe? My inner boy likes his food and a lot of it! I suspect there will be many lengthly nursing sessions when he's born.

The Madre keeps making sarcastic remarks about how Gutsy nursed until he was three (or 12 as she puts it, but really it was 3 1/2. He weaned from his last one or two sessions per day when I became pregnant and lost the rest of my milk). She's half joking, of course. Once upon a time she was a paediatric nurse, so surely she recognizes how great it is to let children self-wean and notices how remarkable her breastfed grandchildren are in every way (perfect milk from a perfect mother makes perfect children, naturally - if this is your first time reading my blog, please do not read any other posts about the greml... er, the boys, and blindly trust that they are, indeed, perfect).

Anyway, mom, I've been giving this a lot of thought and I think this one deserves to be breastfed even longer. I have an image to uphold, being one who is trained in lactation and spouts the reasons why babies deserve to get their mother's milk. So here's my plan:

Breastfeed until he's out of elementary school.

Whip out Ye Olde Pumpe and send him to high school with a canteen full of the good stuff. He can share with his friends and we can conduct experiments on how much better they do on their finals than the deprived kids who don't have expressed breastmilk for lunch.

Ship him care packages that include bags of frozen milk while he's in university. He'll need the EFAs to help him finish his PhD, after all.

Heck, I could just keep on pumping and store some up for his future children, too. Nothing like grandma's stash for when the grandbabies are visiting! It saves their mom from having to think ahead before dropping them off for a weekend.

The bonus to this scheme is that I would have nice, full breasts well into my 60's. 'Benefits of breastfeeding for moms' takes on a whole new meaning!

Seriously though... I wonder how long it'll be before women can make a real profit selling their breastmilk to other adults? I hear that it's happening now, but it's definitely not common yet. I give it ten years. I don't know if I'd want to drink some strangers breastmilk, but I suppose I don't know any of the cows who make the cheese I eat right now, either. Food for thought. Or milk for thought, anyway. Maybe I should keep up my supply for the next decade and go into business. Hrmm...I sense a mooooovement in the wind.